Prepared to Fall
by amelieelizabet
Summary: After three years, John has had enough with the world. He prepares to follow Sherlock, but something stops him. It is his fallen angel. NOT ALITD SEQUEL. SEPERATE FIC. GRADUAL M/M PAIRING
1. Chapter 1

A/N: so... I've been struggling over here with some pretty serious writer's block. Apparently all it takes is that one rather harsh comment to completely throw me off my game. I know I'm not a great author, that much is a given, but heartless belittling of my stories means that area of my brain completely shuts down. I'm sorry I haven't updated any of my other fics, or posted the sequel to A Light in the Darkness. I don't know whether the sequel will ever come, not now that I've read that review. It seems that story was pretty terrible. So I'm starting afresh, and hopefully any response I get to this will help me overcome my fear of posting stories up. It's the flames, they hurt. So please enjoy what I hope will be a less awful story, much more angsty and completely canon. _Amelie x_

* * *

It had been three years since his best friend had died. Three years since his world had been torn apart and anything he held dear destroyed. John had gone back to their flat two weeks after the visit to Sherlock's grave with Mrs Hudson, stopping her from donating Sherlock's belongings. The doctor had put the scientific equipment back onto the table, redistributed the papers in the sitting room. The skull was placed back on the mantle and the knife once again firmly embedded into the wood. The only change to his - _their _– flat was the black face next to their smiley, with a bulleted frown. Mrs Hudson had said nothing.

Each year on the anniversary of Sherlock's sacrifice - because it was a sacrifice, not suicide – John visited the rooftop of Barts, the only time he went near the godforsaken hospital. He would take a single glass of malt whiskey and _his_ blue scarf. There was nothing else for him to do on that day, nothing he could do, and the third year was no different.

It had become too much after three years. There was too much of Sherlock around him, surrounding him. John didn't work because he was too deep in the depression that had settled in as he watched the closed casket lowered into the earth. The bank balance never wavered, which he expected was Mycroft's doing, as penance for his betrayal. Mycroft had become a shell, too. Lestrade visited occasionally but it was clear that he felt too guilty to remain for long in the flat that the wonderful, amazing, _brilliant_ man had lived, the man he didn't believe, the man that fell. John didn't buy milk anymore. The cupboards were bare and he avoided the Chinese on the corner of the street. Every inch of London was filled with memories of the detective, so alive with the rush of the city, so astounding with lightening deductions. No one could ever make John believe that Sherlock Holmes was anything but a genius. It was impossible.

There he stood, on the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, upon the ledge. He didn't want to live through this anymore. He was tired, unable to sleep for fear that he would wake up, screaming, watching him fall all over again. He was empty. Hollow. There was nothing left for him but bitter reminders of the life that he had loved to live. The number he typed into his phone was familiar and regularly used, the voicemail at the end of the line one he heard every night.

"I'm coming back to you, Sherlock. When you took yourself away from me, you took the magic of our world with you and now I'm coming for it. I'm tired of this half-life. I'll see you soon." John threw his phone down in mimicry of Sherlock's actions all those years ago, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes to the tears that fell. He prepared not to fall, but to fly, fly back to his best friend, whose side at which he belonged.

"John."


	2. Chapter 2

He must have fallen already. There was no way he could be hearing the voice that currently caressed his ears, wrapping around his heart and warming it for the first time in years. He couldn't open his eyes, _wouldn't _open his eyes just yet; he didn't know whether it was possible to die from shock if you had already died.

"Funny, isn't it?" John laughed. "Death was far more quick and painless than I had originally thought. I didn't even feel myself step off the ledge. If I had known it was this easy, I would have followed three years ago." Everything felt exactly as it did before he had left the hollow world, causing confusion to fill him. "What does it look like? Are we in some form of other-world, _under_world London? Do we appear in the same place as we die?" There was nothing but silence, so John opened his eyes to see the dreary skyline of London, exactly as grey and bleak as he had left it. "Now I think I imagined it all. You're not really here, are you? I've finally been driven over the edge, no pun intended. I don't want to turn around, though, I don't want to see the empty space where you aren't." John knew when once again there was no reply that he had imagined it. He didn't want any more false hope. He finally stepped out into the air, warmth caressing his fingertips before everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Please review, I'm really hoping this story will be okay. It's all starting to speed up now, one more chapter of one-sided thoughts then we get to the reunion. _Amelie x_

* * *

When he woke up, pain filled his chest of both the emotional and physical sort. This wasn't death. This was too agonising to be death. John opened his eyes to darkness, but could feel the familiar bed beneath him and make out the vague outline of a bedside table. He was in his room. Confusion once again seeped into his mind. How could he have arrived in his room? He distinctly remembered falling over the edge of the rooftop, he remembered seeing the ground, he remembered everything blackening faster than he had thought…

"You have fractured your ribs and have concussion from your collision with the side of the building." There it was again, the voice, _his_ voice. John shot up in bed, trying to peer through the darkness and find the figure who had spoken. Sudden spasms of pain racked his torso and he doubled up, gasping for breath. "Don't move, you fool!" The voice moved closer and cold hands pushed his shoulders back to the mattress, surprisingly strong. This couldn't be real. _He_ couldn't be here.

"What… who are you?" John assumed that the impact of the wall against his head had caused rather severe hallucinations as well as a blinding headache. "What happened?" he groaned.

"You know exactly who I am, John, my voice alone is distinct and unique from any other of your associates, I would have thought even you would recognise it after this long. Don't let your stupidity or need for the mundane cloud your judgement. And as for what happened…" the voice sighted and when it continued, it was tight, tense and mildly upset. "You tried to end your life, to commit suicide. I had to save you. I only just caught your hand and you slammed rather violently into the wall of Bart's. If I hadn't been there…" it broke of again, and John felt the presence move away, silently. "You idiot, John." There was undisguised anguish in the voice, unfamiliar to the tone John was used to. Had been used to.

"I have no idea who you are, but I will not thank you for saving me. Never. I did not want to live." John replied, closing his eyes to the onslaught of tears that was making its way down his cheeks. "Please leave. I need you to leave."

"Why will you not believe who I am!" The voice cried, frustrated. "You would not be crying if you didn't, at least subconsciously, know. Stop being so stubborn and dull… so _pedestrian_! You _know._"

"I wanted to follow him!" John yelled, ignoring the pangs in his chest indicating he should really calm down. "I wanted to finally be back with my best friend and you stopped me! You brought me back to this hell! Just – whoever you are – just go." He kept his eyes tightly shut, useless as they were in the obsidian room. When a cool hand brushed his face, wiping tears, he flinched. The calluses on the fingertips, the bony knuckles and slender digits that brushed his hair back from his face… this phantasm was going too far. John could feel hysteria beginning to rise within him at the overwhelming anxiety that had an iron grip on his lungs, restricting his breathing, but as a doctor his mind told him he had to stop the direction his body was taking before he damaged his ribs further.

"John…" the voice was so realistic, so exact to the memory he held that after three years it was music to his ears. Glorious violin music caressing his mind.

"How can I know you're real?" he gasped, trying to quell the sobs that loomed. "I can't get my hopes up, not again, just for this to be fake. Tell me who you are. _Prove_ to me that you are who I want you to be." It was begging. It was desperation. It was three years of praying that his graveside wish would come true. His life depended on it. His soul existed for it. The last candle of hope flickered dimly in the recesses of his mind, holding on for one last moment.

"It is I, John. I am Sherlock Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a long time since Sherlock had been in contact with anyone, not that people hadn't contacted him. Chasing Moriarty's henchmen had been a tenuous, perilous job, one that had required the entirety of his intelligence and skills of deduction. The consulting criminal had hidden his connections extremely well, occasionally making Sherlock feel lost, but he had persevered. John was the one thought he kept close, the one person who could spur him on when he wanted to give up and go home, the one who made him think before a rash action or remember to eat and sleep so that he didn't collapse; if he had, no one would have been there to help him. John was at home in London, of course, and not in the room, but the concern he had held for the detective had followed him to Budapest, Sardinia, Columbia. He knew Mycroft was aware of his continued existence due to the unchanging and generous bank balance, and there was also Molly. Wonderful Molly Hooper. After helping him escape his fall, she had dyed his hair to an undistinguishable shade that was neither blonde nor ginger. She promised that she would watch John whilst Sherlock destroyed the web of thugs who were a threat to his only friend. That was how he had ended up on the roof.

The year after his 'death', Molly had seen John coming down the stairs that led only to the roof, looking as though he hadn't slept. The second year, she had found him up there still, sleeping with nothing to cover him but a certain blue scarf. She had worried about the progression of trends, given the whiskey tumbler next to him, but as he had isolated himself from society completely she had no way to find out for herself. Mycroft had been contacted, and assured the mortician that he would watch the doctor. It was two years and six months after the fall when Mycroft had text his younger brother's untraceable phone, recently purchased, stating that John was rapidly declining in health and would be in critical condition before long. In those months, Sherlock's efforts had trebled and the last – and most dangerous – of the web was disposed of; Sebastian Moran. He could finally come home. Three days before his anniversary the third, he arrived in London stabbed, scarred and malnourished (despite his best efforts he _was_ still Sherlock, and his body _was_ still only transport), climbing raggedly into Mycroft's car and being given a rare but fierce hug from the usually stoic older brother. The Government was a soft ball of caring hidden behind an impassive mask, anyone who looked would be able to deduce that through his sweet tooth and ever expanding waistline at times of crisis. The three years of uncertainty and danger for his little brother had been difficult on it, a fact causing something akin to guilt to rise in Sherlock. At Mycroft's maisonette, the consulting detective tidied himself up – showered, shaved, tended to his wounds, though knowing John would have done it better and reassured him all the while. A sprained wrist was wrapped, vitamins taken until it felt as though they were being injected. Molly had slapped his non-fractured cheek, threw her arms around him and cried rather excessively when she had stopped by, greeted by Mycroft with astounding familiarity. These events and sleeping had brought him up to _the_ day.

At four pm, Mycroft had been sent a text that John had left 221B with a scarf and glass. He looked worse than ever, gaunt, sallow, skeletal. The alert was on red, the time running out. Sherlock had raced manically to Barts, jumping rooftops and dodging traffic. He reached the hospital in record time and raced to the roof, silently slipping out into the open air just as John stepped onto the ledge. This must be how John had felt, he thought shamefully. But this time, Sherlock could stop the doctor. He called out and for a moment, paused, not knowing what to say, for one uncommon moment speechless, which was a big mistake. John had shaken his head, claimed delusion and thrown himself out into the empty space. If Sherlock hadn't started to run as John had said goodbye, realising what he was about to do, he wouldn't have been able to catch the shorter man. As it was, he had to dive onto the floor to grab his hand. He had only just got him and he watched with abject horror as John's body slammed into the wall, head cracking sickeningly against the stone. John was too light for a man of his stature and profession but Sherlock didn't take the time to analyse – he had to get John back on solid ground, home, safe and sound.

Once John was in his bed, ribs bandaged and bruise formed gruesomely on his forehead, Sherlock relaxed into the chair in the corner of the room. As a recipient of concussion himself several times, he knew the pain of the light on newly opened eyes, so he had closed the curtains to shut out any sun although by this point darkness was falling over London and the street lamps and light pollution were the main problem for the windows of 221B. It also gave Sherlock the slightly selfish opportunity to pace his revelations to John. Shock would not be an appreciated addition to his injuries.

Over the three years of his job, Sherlock had been given a momentous amount of time to think about what he was doing, and his reasoning behind it. He was grateful to Mrs Hudson for providing an expensive flat in a sought after area at a discounted area, putting up with _most_ of his eccentricities. If she was assassinated he would have no Bakers Street, no Mrs Hudson, and there is no Sherlock Holmes of 221B if there _is_ no 221B or its England-saving landlady. Lestrade held Sherlock's respect because he had taken a drug addict in under his wing, helping him cure himself and allowing him on crime scenes to distract from the withdrawal. Eventually the then young policeman had realised the potential of Sherlock's talent, and had risen quickly and efficiently through the ranks of Scotland Yard, becoming something akin to a friend to Sherlock. He couldn't work with another officer – they wouldn't allow it for a start – and the case with Dimmock proved the idiocy of that idea. No DI Lestrade, no cases. No cases, no consulting detective. No consulting detective… well. Both of these people were important to Sherlock, vital to the maintenance of his sanity, crucial to his survival. They were his gates into the world. They could not be removed because they could not be replaced. But he wasn't doing it for them.

John was another creature altogether. He was ordinary, pedestrian, a complete idiot. He could not observe, nor could he deduct. He helped pay the rent, he put up with the quirks of a Holmes, he stayed despite the routine kidnappings, but overall he did not seem to be overly valuable. Granted, he was an assistant, a good one with medical knowledge, one who didn't shy away from danger, but any ex-army doctor could do that, and possibly one without a psychosomatic limp to cure when they first met. Sherlock couldn't discern the reason for needing to save John above everything else, even his own safety, apart from _sentiment_. He had gained a friend and he was now going to the ends of the earth to protect. John was the one person he wanted – and needed – to save, to keep, to… to have. Sherlock needed to _have_ John, in his presence, with him, by his side.

The doctor in question began to stir, not yet in the realm of the conscious but starting to wake. This was it. This was the time for Sherlock to be brought back into existence from the half-life he had been living.

It was all so wrong. Why was John not acknowledging his awareness of Sherlock's identity? Yes, he had been presumed dead for three years but he was _right there_, touching John, attempting to soothe his tears. He had begged. John had begged. The strong, military man had begged him to prove it, to tell him, the pain in his voice too real to be falsified, too raw to suggest any implic- oh. Oh. _Oh!_ Of course! The reason why John refused to believe, refused to hope; he had hallucinated before and been disappointed, had been let down and had fallen into deeper depression each time because it was obviously not a one off occasion. How many times over the last three years had John reached out for, started talking to, looked for Sherlock, only to remember that he wasn't there? Remind himself that he never would be? How many times had he thought he caught sight of a mop of raven curls, a tall black coat or a vivid blue scarf, only to see that they were all visions, a wishful mind tricking hopeful eyes? Certainly as many as Sherlock had done the same, almost yearning for his doctor, his blogger, to be beside him, gun ready, hands steady, eyes sparkling. Evidently too many times to fight through a concussion and believe the overwhelming evidence of the simple truth. Sherlock gave in, allowed himself to give John the easy way out. He took a deep breath, and welcomed himself back into the world.

"It is I, John. I am Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

A/N: He's back, the clever bugger. Okay, story will start evolving soon, I'm hoping to avoid a case (because my mind is buried under revision and cannot create anything to do Sherlock justice), however I am more than happy to answer requests as to an aspect of the story, say if you want a cameo role, but it will be discreet. I would like some reviews, I'm not feeling too great at the moment and am suffering from a bit of a downturn in mood. Reviews make me feel a tiny bit better about my general abomnable self. Reminder that I don't own a single thing except a Speedy's receipt that will make an appearance, and that this is a GRADUAL Johnlock piece. I can't rush into something that takes time to form; beauty is a slow growing organism that needs care and attention. _Amelie x_


	5. Chapter 5

"Turn the light on."

"But John…"

"Turn the light on, _now._"

"John, your head-"

"TURN THE BLOODY LIGHT ON!"

"… as you wish. Mind your eyes."

"I'm a bloody doctor, you bloody fool; I know the effects of concussion." There was a yelp from the injured man as bright light filled the bare room, swallowing the shadows and emptying the small space of the darkness it had been encompassed by. Eyes opened as fast as he could help it and flew to the door, next to which a figure was standing, fingers caressing the light switch.

"Told you so, John," the voice smirked wryly, moving cautiously towards the bed. John sobbed as his eyes focused and for the first time in three years, he felt relief. He lifted himself up off the bed into a more suitable sitting position, reclining against the bedframe.

"My god, it really is you!" he cried, tears once again falling, unbidden, onto the sheets below him. "You're alive, you're really alive…" Sherlock moved closer still and when he was within reach John yanked him onto the bed and threw muscular arms around him, pain in his ribs forgotten. "All these years of wishing, goddamn praying you weren't dead and you aren't, you brilliant man, you brilliant, _wonderful_ man." His breath was torn from him in pained gasps, fingers clutching at the tailored blazer back that he had missed so much, face buried deep into his slender neck. _Sherlock's_ slender neck. John could say it now without feeling so pained, so empty. He could finally believe, could hope.

"I am here, John. I am here." Sherlock's voice was uncomfortable, small and for once choked with emotion. He was holding back tears of his own, cursing his heart for making an appearance, cursing his evident self-misdiagnosis of sociopathic tendencies, but also necessary in the first place. "You can relax now, John, I am back. I am back for good."

"Relax?" John yelled, shuddering. "Three years, Sherlock! Three years of thinking you were dead! Three years of wishing, every _single_ day, praying that you were here. Three years of thinking of what I could have done, what I should have done, of watching you fall and fall every time I close my eyes, seeing you hit the ground, of feeling for a pulse that wasn't there…" he couldn't breathe, panic was still set deep in his mind, he had to check that it was definitely Sherlock Holmes who he was embracing so tightly, that he wasn't hallucinating all over again. Yanking his head back, he saw the high, noble cheekbones, one bruised and swollen – fractured? What bastard would fracture such a perfect cheekbone? – the sharp eyes, green yet blue at the same time, he saw the beautiful, noble face of Sherlock Holmes staring right back at him. "You really are here, Sherlock, thank God. You're back, you're really, truly back." Relief coursed through him, soothing the frazzled nerves and emptying adrenalin from his system, leaving him exhausted and in pain, slumped against his best friend. Sherlock wove a hand into the short, greying hair, sighing.

"Never mind me, John, I will still be here in the morning. Go to sleep; you need rest in order to heal. I am going to arrange my belongings." He made to leave, untangling himself from the shorter man, when a terrified cry made him freeze. John's eyes were wide, petrified. His mouth was open in protest but he was struggling to find the words to say, they were evading him, all he knew was that he couldn't let Sherlock go, couldn't let him out of his sight.

"No! Sherlock, no… Sherlock you can't leave, please don't leave me, please…" he begged, shamelessly clinging to the man in front of him, manipulating his wounded body in ways that would pain him later but he couldn't care less about that for the moment; if Sherlock left, his world would collapse. "Don't leave, if you leave I'll forget, I'll wake up and you won't be there and I will think it's a dream, you can't leave my sight, you have to stay, you have to prove you're real, please, please _don't _leave…" He was hyperventilating, on the verge of a complete panic attack. Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his long arms around John, soothing, calming, reassuring.

"I will be here when you wake, John. I will not leave. For now, sleep. We can talk in the morning." An urge took the consulting detective, one that he didn't have the time to stop, and he placed a kiss to the top of the sandy hair, lying down on John's bed, pulling the doctor down with him to rest on his chest. It was odd, comforting people, but it _was_ John he was comforting, and thus he found that it was surprisingly natural. "Sleep, my dear blogger. Sleep."

* * *

A/N: There they are, Holmes and Watson, together again. I would like to say a massive thank you to hjohn302, who gave me the most wonderful, amazing, beautiful review that, even though I'm really ill, made my week. Reviews really are the best thing anyone can give to aspiring authors and though the other reviews have given me hope, that one is now printed out and stuck on my wall - it's like you saw into my mind! Thanks to all reviewers, and please keep reviewing because they make me want to write, to keep you all happy. Thank you, hope you liked it, _Amelie x_


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time in three years, John Hamish Watson woke, tranquil and rested. He hadn't been torn into reality from a horrific dream, he hadn't envisioned Sherlock plummeting to his death, he wasn't overwhelmed by hopeless, helpless despair…

It was strange. He almost felt warm and secure, his blanket seemed almost like arms, it felt as though the hole in his chest, that ragged, desolate hole, was healing, knitting itself back together, melding flesh and life back into a semblance of normality.

He was forgetting.

Sudden, desperate terror filled his soul. He couldn't forget Sherlock; he had to hold the memory of him dear. He couldn't trust this deceitful dream that had filled him with hope, he couldn't trust the happiness his treacherous brain supplied, trying to make him believe he didn't need to grieve, that Sherlock was alright. The pain in his sternum, his _heart_, that was the pain he had to focus on, he had to make sure that the pain Sherlock caused with his sacrifice was remembered. He had to honour the biggest and truest memory of Sherlock he had left, he couldn't let the impostors, these wonderfully false imaginings, overshadow the memory of Sherlock's willingness to cease to exist…

"John." It was his voice. Like a flash of lightning illuminating a dark room, the doctor remembered the events of the previous evening. He remembered stepping off the roof at Bart's, talking to Sherlock, falling asleep with Sherlock at his side. It wasn't fake. It hadn't just been some lucid hallucination of a craze, desperate mind. It was real. "Please breathe normally, John. You're having a psychological panic attack because you don't realise that I am _really here_. It's a natural manifestation of subconscious beliefs, and it will pass. Look at me." The commanding baritone voice soothed John, allowing him to unclench his eyes and look at the aristocrat, the famous face of the consulting detective. And what a consulting detective he was, all tall, slender and noble, if not a little bruised and malnourished. John finally relaxed into the pillows, feeling the real ache in his chest – his ribs.

"Ouch." There was no need to ask for anything, no need to say a word because with that one pained gasp, Sherlock was by his side with the water and co-codamol, helping him up and giving him some much needed pain relief.

"You have questions for me, and once you are well enough to deal with the answers, I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity." Sherlock asserted. "As you are in my care, I will do my best to attend to you. A perusal of some of your medical journals," he gestured to the bedside table, indicating John's tomes of university education. "Suggests that I am capable of tending to you because you are not too severely wounded, physically." He made to leave, but John grasped his slender, scarred hand, stopping him. When Sherlock turned back to face his blogger it was like his fingers brushed John's palm, caressing, revelling in the close contact that had been so absent for the three most hellish years of his life.

"Wait, Sherlock. You aren't leaving me in bed like an invalid, just because you skimmed a couple of my journals. The concussion has gone and I need to get up, I need to move about. My ribs will heal. You, you Pillock, are not getting away with explaining yourself. Now help me to the kitchen; I need tea and you need food. And tea." The detective looked uncertain but decided to follow the orders given in what he labelled John's 'soldier voice; in his mind-palace. A mind-palace that had fallen into disrepair except one wing and the basement; He kept his memories of John and his obsession with Moriarty in perfect condition. Stumbling into the kitchen, John put the kettle on and stuck some bread in the toaster before slumping, exhausted, against the counter. He motioned for Sherlock to start, and the detective slowly started pacing.

"I had no choice upon that rooftop, John." He was quiet and sombre. "I had been lured up there by Moriarty, and I couldn't have you in the vicinity, neither could Moriarty, obviously, which is why when you received the call about Mrs Hudson, I didn't go with you, no matter what you thought of me, which pained me. His ploy worked perfectly; I was isolated and everything had gone according to the trap which he had made. Once I was up there, he told me that there was no computer code. I had been so stupid! I was so determined to believe that Moriarty was an evil genius that I didn't stop to _observe_. God," he scoffed. "I hated myself in that split second before the whirlwind of his madness caught me up again. I was given an ultimatum – jump, or watch you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade die, at the hands of three master assassins. I couldn't let that happen; Mrs Hudson and Lestrade have been so good and kind to me over the years, despite my attitude and less than pleasant habits in the past. And you, John…" he stopped pacing and looked down at the table, running a finger over the scorch marks and acid burns on the surface left by his old experiments. "You became part of my world the moment you limped into that lab, a part that, even if I had wanted to, could not be altered or deleted. I found that you are my friend, my true and best friend, and I haven't ever… I didn't know…" his hesitancy would have been endearing to John had he not been unsteady, weak with pain and emotional exhaustion. Tears slipped down his face as he listened to Sherlock explaining why he ripped the universe out of John and left him an empty shell. "I am not accustomed to friendship, let alone comfortable with it, nor am I overly acquainted with the ways in which friends behave. But I could not stand by and watch as the best man I knew was killed by my selfish desire to live, recognised and glorified. Everyone has their weak point, someone for whom they would do anything in order to keep them from harm, and it seems you are mine. I jumped so that you would live, John. I did it for you." He looked up earnestly at John, and rushed to catch him as the doctor's knees buckled. As he laid the man on the couch, brushing tears from his cheeks, Sherlock explained how he leapt and survived. How Moriarty had also survived the bullet through his head, which had been a trick. It had all been a trick. How he had spent three years searching the earth for all the spiders in Moriarty's web of webs, of disposing of the threats to Sherlock's carefully constructed family. "Moran was the last minion, the last pawn before we get back to Jim himself. Moran was the one who had been sent to kill you. He died slowly and very painfully." A dark look crossed his face, and he whispered a curse. "I did not want to have to kill, John, please believe me. I wanted to consult for the police, to run through London and drink tea with my blogger. Sometimes – in fact, most times – I left the vermin to Mycroft to have disposed of. I have blood on my hands, John. It will always be there and I can't ever get it off, but I did it so that I could come back here and live my life like I used to. So that _we_ could have our life back." He felt as though he couldn't breathe, he was so upset with the experience of the past three years, but his own reaction was unimportant. John was the one with the power, it was John who could send him away and he would go. The man in question had stopped crying and shakily brushed an unruly curl from Sherlock's face.

"I know what it feels like, Sherlock. And I'm here for you, to help you. I hate that you felt this whole, terrible fiasco was necessary, and it's changed me forever, but I'm glad that it's over. When you find Moriarty, and you will, we'll face him together, because _friends protect each other_. Now, be a friend and make the tea." John leant back and closed his eyes, and Sherlock followed his request. Once he had made John's tea, he turned to find whether John still had any sugar, unlikely due to the fact that John never took sugar in any beverage of his. In the 'designated-tea-stuff-not-for-experimentation-or-anything' cupboard, on its own shelf, were the bags upon bags of unopened sugar, bought monthly on routine, waiting for Sherlock to come home.

* * *

A/N: I'm so sorry for not uploading in so long, I've been on an unofficial haitus. I've been very ill for a long time, and I was when I wrote this, but I got it done. I'm going to be doing A Chance to Live, and maybe a teaser prologue to Seeing in the Darkness, but it depends on the reception that this gets, because I'm not getting any better health-wise, so they'll be much the same strength as this, so please review, and keep an eye out! _Amelie x_


End file.
